“Can’t scare us with that old trick, my friend,” he jeered, and swore as the foreman’s fist caught him full in the face.
Again Sudden struck, blindly, hopelessly, with the primitive instinct of a cornered animal to die biting; he knew he could not get away. Burdette’s followers were joining in the tussle. One went down with a gasp of agony as the foreman’s heel landed in his stomach; a second, trying to catch a jabbing fist, got caught by it himself and retired to spit out teeth and curses; and then it seemed to Sudden that the whole of Battle Butte had fallen upon him.
“Take care o’ the houn’ till I come back,” King cried, and darted after the fugitives.
They had not got far—the steepness of the rise made speed impossible. Fiercely as he hated leaving their deliverer, Luce knew he must obey orders, so, bidding the girl follow him, he went doggedly on, breaking a way through the dense vegetation which, while it impeded also served to hide them. From below they could hear someone thrashing through the brush in pursuit. Lacerated by thorns they had no time to avoid, and with leaden legs, the runaways scrambled on, but Luce knew that the terrific exertion was telling upon his companion. She did not complain, but her panting breath and lagging steps were eloquent. King Burdette, following a path already made and not hampered by a slower person who needed help at difficult places, gained ground on them rapidly. They could hear him, stumbling, cursing, not far away, and behind him, others. Presently, at the foot of a steep wall of rock which shot up out of the verdure, Nan slipped and fell.
“I just can’t go on, Luce,” she groaned wearily. “I’m sorry—to be—such a drag.”
“Yu’ve been splendid,” he replied, and drew his pistol. “This is a good place to stand ‘em off; they can’t get behind us anyways.”
The crackling noise of trampled twigs and branches was very near now and then came a louder crash and a rumbled oath; someone had tripped and fallen. The boy’s face grew hard. Nan was on her feet again, and they were standing in the deeper shadow of a big bush which partly masked the wall of the cliff. It was too late to resume flight, for in another moment their pursuers would be upon them. And then the miracle happened.
“Hey, Luce, duck in here,” a husky voice murmured.
The boy turned, saw a ghostly hand beckoning from the blackness, and seizing Nan by the wrist, hurried her towards it as King Burdette burst from the bushes. Following whispered instructions, they squeezed through a jagged crevice in the rock wall, stooped to crawl along a narrow tunnel, to find themselves in a small cave. Here the light of a solitary candle showed them that their deliverer was none other than the missing miner.
“He, he,” the old man chuckled as he saw their amazed expressions. “Didn’t figure on findin’ me hyarabouts, huh?”
“Shore didn’t, an’ we’re mighty glad to see yu, Cal,” Luce replied. “Yu got us out of a tight place, unless…”
The prospector read his thoughts. “Don’t yu worry, son,” he said. “King won’t find us.
Why, I’ve bin livin’ here since yu took me outa that hut. No, sir, we’ve razzledazzled that triflin’ relative o’ yores this time. How come he’s chasm’ the pair o’ yu?”
The young man told the story, and the miner’s bright, squirrel-like eyes twinkled. “So yu ain’t a Burdette, arter all? Well, that’s good hearin’,” was his comment. “Reckon King has bit off more than he can chaw for once.” A string of dull, muffled explosions reached their ears, and the old man dived into the tunnel. In a moment or so he was back again, his shoulders shaking with malign mirth.
“They’s a-fightin’ down there,” he told them. “I’m guessin’ the C P is takin’ a hand in the game. What’s in yore mind, son?”
Luce was moving towards the exit. “I’m afraid they’ve got Green,” he explained. “Mebbe I can do somethin’”
California shook a gnarled finger at him. “Didn’t he tell yu to stay with the gal?” he asked.
The boy looked uncomfortable. “Yes, but…” he began.
“Ain’t nò buts’,” the other cut in. “Yu gotta obey orders. When that foreman fella talks he sez somethin’; lots o’ folk just make a noise.”
“Yo’re right, Cal, but I owe him more’n yu know, an’ it’s hard to sit still when …”
Leaving the sentence unfinished, he seated himself by the side of Nan on the shakedown of spruce-tops covered by a blanket, which was all the furniture the place could boast. In a moment, however, he was on his feet again, holding under the candle-light a chip of rock he had picked up from the floor.
“Why, Cal, there’s gold here,” he said excitedly. One glance at the grimy, scored face told him the truth. “Yu knew?” he added. “So yore mine ain’t on Ol’ Stormy?”
The old man’s face split into a grin. “He, he, fooled yu too,” he cackled in his high-pitched voice. “This of gopher ain’t so dumb as some o’ yu reckons. Wouldn’t King r’ar up if he knowed the gold he was tryin’ to steal laid right under his nose?”
“Ain’t yu scared I’ll tell, Cal?” the boy bantered.
The miner shook his head knowingly. “Not any, son,” he said soberly. “Yo’re goin’ to be my pardner. Yessir, if it hadn’t bin for yu I’d likely be toastin’ my toes where gold melts mighty quick.”
“But, Cal…”
The protest was cut short. “Like I told yu, afore, there ain’t nòbuts.’ I’ve spent all my life lookin’ for the durn stuff, an’ now I’m ‘most sorry I’ve found it; won’t have nothin’ to live for.”
Luce looked at the girl in amused surprise; youth can rarely realize that achievement is not an unmixed blessing. “Yu’d think he’d lost a fortune ‘stead o’ findin’ one,” he whispered. “It’s going to mean a lot to us.”
She smiled teasingly. “I didn’t hear that I was included,” she said. “I’m glad you are to be rich, Luce.”
“Yu know what I mean,” he told her tenderly. “I’d be the poorest man in the world without yu, Nan.”
A cool little hand slid into his, and he was still holding it when Cal, who had slipped down to the entrance of the cave, came back. He coughed ostentatiously as he emerged into the light.
“Been young myself once, though yu mightn’t think it,” he chuckled. “The ruckus is still proceedin’, an’ I reckon we better stay put till we know who’s goin’ to win out.”
Save that they kept well away from Windy, Purdie and his men used the regular trail until they were near the Circle B, when they dismounted and approached on foot. Split up into pairs, spread out in a line along the slope facing the ranch buildings and securely hidden in the scrub, they waited for the signal. Out of a deeper blotch of blackness which they knew must be the ranchhouse a lighted window gleamed like an eye; elsewhere was darkness.
Somewhere an owl hooted dismally, and at intervals a stealthy movement in the brush denoted a four-footed prowler in search of prey. Waiting proved weary work, and as the moments crawled sluggishly by, Purdie grew impatient.
“Damn this doin’ nothin’—looks like things has gone wrong,” he grumbled. “We’ve been here an hour.”
“Day ain’t broke yet,” Yago pointed out. He could understand the cattleman’s anxiety; if the foreman failed…? This suggested a new angle. “S’pose we don’t git that signal, what then?” he asked.
“We gotta fade—without firin’ a shot—an’ Burdette takes the C P,” Purdie said heavily.
“Jim is our one hope. I dunno what he was aimin’ to do …”
“He ain’t the chatterin’ kind—didn’t tell me neither—but I’m bettin’ he’ll make the grade,”
Bill said confidently. “We’ll git the word all right.”
His employer grunted doubtfully; the silence and suspense, coupled with the inaction, were telling on his nerves. In a lesser degree some of the other men were feeling the same. Flatty and Moody, holed up together in a clump of brush from which, when they stood up, the front of the ranchhouse was visible, were also getting restive. The night air was cold
, and they dared not smoke.
“Wish they’d start the damn dance—my toes is froze,” Moody complained. “An’ yu would pick a catclaw to camp in, wouldn’t yu?”
“She’s a good place,” his friend replied complacently, although inwardly he was cursing the fact himself. “Afeard o’ gettin’ yore lily-white skin scratched, huh?”
Moody’s reply was a quiet but vigorous slap on his own thigh. “Got any spiders yet?” he inquired.
“Gawd, no. Was that?”
“Yeah, tarantula—on’y a little ‘un, though,” Moody lied, and chortled as he heard his friend’s feet fidgeting; he well knew Flatty’s antipathy for that poisonous pest. “If yu feel a ticklin’ shall I come an’ pat yu?” he went on solicitously.
“No, I’d sooner be bit,” was the unthankful retort. “Ain’t that blasted day ever comin’?”
“She shore is,” Moody said.
Behind the Butte a pale grey glow was spreading over the sky, rimming the surrounding ridges with silver, but the valley was still a sea of ink. Then came a shout from the plateau, shattering the silence, and the bunkhouse came to life. Lights appeared, a door gaped, and dark figures tumbled out in answer to the call of their leader. The men in ambush watched in perplexity; they had strict orders to wait for the signal. Chris Purdie swore; he did not know what to do.
“I’m feared Jim has slipped up,” he said gruffly. “Can’t we do nothin’, Bill?”
“Stay put,” the little man advised, though it was against the grain. “If he wants us he’ll let us know.”
They could not see what was happening on the plateau, but it had set the Circle B humming like a hornets’ nest. Then, above the shouts and curses, once—twice—the eagerly-awaited signal rang out.
“Let ‘em have it, boys, but keep under cover,” Purdie cried.
From a dozen points along the slope vicious spits of flame stabbed the gloom, and before that unexpected hail of lead the Circle B riders fled for shelter. One of them, racing for the ranchhouse, stopped suddenly, and then toppled over.
“Tally one for the C P,” Moody called out exultingly. “See that, Flatty? I got him, an’ he was a-runnin’ too.”
“On’y proves what I said,” Flatty retorted. “If he’d stood still …”
“Aw, go to blazes, an’ don’t forget this yer catclaw ain’t bullet-proof, or yu will,” the marksman warned, peering out cautiously in the hope of a second success.
But the Circle B men had all gone to ground and were lying close. That first volley had told them they had a job of work to do, and they meant to put it over. Unable to see the enemy, they fired at the flashes, and it soon became evident that Burdette’s followers knew how to use a rifle. The growing light would give them a greater advantage, for the cover of the attacking force was woefully thin, and to cross the open plateau to rush the ranchhouse would be little less than suicide. Purdie recognized this, but, satisfied that his girl was no longer a prisoner he was determined to give the abductors a lesson they would not forget. After the first furious fusillade, the firing on both sides slackened and became a matter of marksmanship. A movement in the scrub or a shadow near one of the shattered windows of the building instantly brought the questing lead. Moody, furtively shifting a cramped limb, swore in sudden agony as a bullet zipped past.
“Whatsa matter?” asked his companion, from the other side of the bush. “Yu hit?”
Getting no reply, he added anxiously, “Ain’t dead, are yu? Can’t yu say somethin’?”
Moody could and did; he said a great deal, quickly and emphatically, his topics comprising bloody-minded bandits, catclaw bushes as cover, and jackass cowpunchers who selected them as such. Incidentally, Flatty gathered that the bullet had driven sundry thorns into his friend’s cheek. He listened spellbound until, from sheer lack of breath, the speaker paused.
“Sounds like yu was a bit peeved,” he said, and when the storm of words began again,
“Awright, I heard yu the first time. Where did that jasper fire from? Let’s argue with him.”
“End upstairs window to the left,” Moody growled, whereupon the pair of them directed an unceasing stream of lead at the window. The man crouching behind it had his hat snatched from his head, his shoulder perforated, and when he poked his rifle out to reply to this scandalous onslaught, the weapon was jerked from his tingling fingers, a ruined, useless thing.
Cursing, he went in search of a bandage and a safer position.
“Guess if we ain’t got him he’s discouraged a whole lot,” Flatty chuckled.
Moody did not reply. He was extracting further thorns from his epidermis, and the painful process moved him to speech again—vitriolic speech.
Chapter XXIV
SUDDEN’S first conscious thought was that someone was banging his head on the floor and causing a cracking kind of explosion each time. Then, as the mist cleared from his brain, he recognized that though his head throbbed with pain, he was alone, and the noise came from without. He understood—the cleaning up of the Circle B was in progress. He tried to get up, but his bonds would not permit this; he could only lie and wait. So far as he could remember, he was in the room from which he had rescued Nan Purdie. He wondered if the pair had got away?
“Guess they made it, or Purdie would ‘a’ been forced to let up,” he reasoned. “Why didn’t Burdette bump me off at once? Aims to use me to bargain with, if things go against him, mebbe.”
For some time he lay there, listening to the intermittent crash of rifle-fire. He did not know the hour, but it was almost full daylight, and the fight must have been on for some time.
Presently his quick ear caught the sound of a stealthy step outside the door. Were they coming to finish him off?
“Massa Luce, yo dah?” asked a low, quavering voice.
A woman—it could only be Mandy, the black cook; Sudden had heard the boy speak of her. A strange voice would frighten her away; Sudden groaned. His ruse succeeded, a key turned in the lock, and the Negress entered; she had an open clasp-knife in her hand. At the sight of the bound figure she started back in alarm.
“Yo don’t be Massa Luce,” she said.
“I’m his friend—I came here to help him an’ got catched myself,” the puncher explained.
“Yu must be Mandy; Luce has told me of yu; I reckon he would like for yu to cut me loose.”
She was shaking with fear, but she stooped and hacked through the thongs on wrists and ankles. Sudden hoisted himself to his feet, weak and tottery, one hand feeling gingerly at the back of his head, which throbbed incessantly. He found a noble bump, but no blood.
“So it ain’t really fallin’ apart,” he said, and grinned. “We gotta get away from here plenty quick.”
“Yassuh, dat King neah kill me for dis,” Mandy said, her eyes big with terror.
“I’m figurin’ he’s got his hands middlin’ full just now,” the foreman assured her.
Noiselessly they stole down the stairs. The frequent crack of a rifle and the thud of striking lead told that the battle was not yet over. As they passed the door of the living-room a choking cry and a curse announced that a bullet had found a billet. A voice called a hoarse question.
“Solly’s got his—plumb through the throat,” came the reply. “The damn fool would take a risk—I done told him them hombres could shoot.”
They found the back door unguarded—with the steep Butte behind him, King had no fear of heing outflanked—darted across the cleared space and plunged into the welcome shelter of the trees. For a long ten minutes, Sudden led the way, twisting and turning in the densest of the scrub, and then he paused.
“Reckon yo’re safe now, Mandy,” he said. “Wait here till the firin’ stops an’ then come in; we’ll take care o’ yu.
“Yassuh, I suah will do jus’ dat,” she replied, and with the fatalistic resignation of her race, sat down to await whatever the gods might send.
Sudden headed for the scene of the conflict. Around him birds were chirping,
the slanting rays of the early suntrickled through the trees, a tiny rivulet bubbled with mirth as he stepped across it, and his lips set in a wry smile as he reflected that only a few hundred yards away men were striving to slay their kind. Far up in the sky a great hawk swept in a wide circle.
“Another killer,” he mused. “But he’s gotta live. Well, so’ve we, an’ if Burdette’s sort … Shucks! Mebbe it’s hard to justify, but it’s gotta be did.”
Which sage conclusion brought him to a little rise from whence he could see the ranchhouse verandah. Even as he looked, a stick with a soiled white rag tied to it was thrust from a shattered window, and a voice called out.
“Hey, Purdie, I got somethin’ to say. Yu willin’ to listen?”
“Speak yore piece,” came the rancher’s reply.
Sim Burdette stepped into view. He carried no gun, and there was much of his elder brother’s jaunty impudence in his attitude as he rested his hands on the verandah rail and coolly faced the foes he could not see. There was a smear of blood on his dark, sneering face, and his voice, when he spoke, had the harsh, dominant note characteristic of the Black Burdettes.
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